Holding Home in Your Arms
by GloriousBlackout
Summary: One of the notebooks containing Bucky's memories finds its way into Steve's hands. While Bucky sleeps in cryo, Steve learns what happened to him during his years in hiding.
1. Chapter 1

**Just a note: there are points in this story where I briefly use different languages, but the translations can be found at the bottom of the page. I hope you enjoy this :)**

* * *

It's on an unassuming day that Steve's accosted by T'Challa in the great hall, the man clearly tired but intent on fulfilling some unknown duty. The king has just returned from yet another overseas conference in which he's effortlessly shown himself to be a fine ruler while managing to hide the fact that he's harbouring fugitives, and he should be indulging in a few hours of rest rather than concerning himself with Steve's whereabouts.

Though he tries, Steve can't quite help the unease that sinks into his stomach as he's led silently along the corridors towards T'Challa's private office. He's able to relax as soon as the door is closed behind him and T'Challa sheds the persona of determined leader as easily as a snake would shed its skin, however, and the man greets Steve with a small smile before settling behind an immaculately carved desk.

"I apologise for the silent act, Captain Rogers," T'Challa says as he joins his hands together and leans back in his chair. As much as Steve's tried to remind him that the title of Captain hardly belongs to him anymore, the king has continued to use it throughout his stay as a form of respect. "I felt it would be best if this matter were handled privately for the moment, in order to protect a mutual friend."

Steve barely has time to raise a questioning eyebrow before T'Challa reaches under his desk, bringing forth a small, cardboard package before pushing it across to Steve. After a moment of confusion, Steve reaches for it and feels its lightness in his hands, and he has to resist the urge to shake it as if searching for clues as to what's inside.

"Is someone sending me presents now?" he asks, eliciting a bark of laughter from T'Challa. Steve's lingering paranoia makes him wonder if this is some intricate trap, before he remembers that the Dora Milaje would never have let their king handle the package had they suspected such a thing.

Slightly comforted, he tears the flaps of cardboard on top of the package apart and looks within, only to find that its contents are disappointingly ordinary, with a small slip of paper resting atop a vaguely familiar tattered backpack. Steve reaches for the paper first and unfolds it to reveal neat handwriting signed with a familiar scrawl.

 _Sorry it took so long to get around to sending this your way. It got a little difficult considering you vanishing into the unknown and all. I would have salvaged this along with your shield and Sam's wings, but the investigators were still looking through its contents at that point and it's taken a while for another opportunity to come up. I figured your friend would like his belongings back though; hopefully everything's still there._

 _I'm okay. I don't think anyone knows I helped you, but I'll be sure to get off the grid if I'm found out. Hope you're all doing well. If you ever want to pay me back you could always buy me a drink._

 _Best Wishes,_

 _Sharon_

Steve doesn't know whether to laugh with disbelief or cry at the fact that he still has friends beyond Wakanda. The knowledge that Sharon's okay cuts loose one strand of fear that's been clinging to him since Vienna (and never mind a drink, he imagines he owes her three houses, a car and a pony by this point) and he looks up at T'Challa to see his smile reflected on the man's face.

"My conference was in Berlin. She happened to be there for work and started cryptically asking after you. I don't think she knew for sure that you were under my protection, but she'd put two and two together and assumed that, considering I was also in Siberia, I may have some idea of where you'd gone. Long story short, after a long talk we decided to trust each other and she told me she had something in her trunk which she wanted to pass onto you but didn't know how. Until we spoke, of course."

Steve nods, looking back down to the letter and wishing for a small moment that he could travel across the world and see his friends too. He knows it'll be a long time before he deserves such a luxury, however. "So she knows we're with you?"

"She knows that I have the means to contact you," T'Challa says, although they both know that Sharon's clever enough to have come to the correct conclusion. "She also knows to contact me should she find herself in trouble."

Steve's not sure what he can say to express the gratitude that surges through him then, so he simply nods and utters a small "Thank you," before rising to his feet and taking the package with him.

The walk to the guest suite seems to take an age, with the box feeling heavier with every step, and its only when Steve reaches his room and rests its contents on the bed that he feels he can breathe.

The backpack looks untouched from when he last saw it strapped to Bucky's back, despite how thoroughly the investigators must have examined it. Steve carefully undoes the buckles and opens it before removing the contents with the same care he would give something precious. It hits him that to Bucky, that's exactly what this bag was - the only belongings he could afford to take with him in an emergency - and it's not lost on him that he's getting a glimpse into his friend's life during the last few years.

The pile that builds up on the bed ends up being rather modest. There are two passports; one noticeably older and outdated which lists Bucky's name as Aleksander Petrov, and a newer one listing his name as Iakov Nikolaev which still has a few years left before it expires. Both seem genuine although it's clear this isn't the case, and Steve has a private laugh at the date of birth of 08/04/1975 on Iakov's (Bucky may be approaching a hundred years old, but he's not going to be mistaken for forty-one anytime soon).

Besides the passports, there are a small collection of transport maps for the cities of Bucharest, Kiev, Tallinn and Oslo, a disposable phone and a charger, a couple of chocolate and protein bars, two bottles of water, Norwegian and Romanian phrase-books, a few thousand Romanian Leu and several thick wads of American Dollars. Steve isn't too surprised by this; not long after the fall of SHIELD, there'd been reports of several Hydra agents and scientists being found dead in an old bank vault, while lockers containing Hydra funds had been cleared out. It was suspected that the attacker had run away with millions of dollars, and though Steve had kept his mouth shut about the likely culprit, it had provided small comfort over the years that Bucky's financial situation was stable at least.

He's surprised the money was even returned to the backpack, but then, he supposes the authorities in Berlin weren't expecting their evidence to start disappearing from under their noses.

The last thing he pulls out of the backpack is a small, worn notebook, not unlike the one he'd found in Bucky's apartment all those weeks ago. A quick flick through it shows yellowed pages full of messy writing, and Steve feels his breath catch in his throat as he realises exactly what he's holding. The book feels like hot coal in his hands but he resists the urge to drop it, feeling his heart pound as he takes in how precious it is.

He probably shouldn't read it. He's not sure if Bucky would want him to or if the thoughts contained within the pages were only ever meant for his own benefit, and it's not like Steve can ask him.

He misses Bucky though. Painfully so. Their brief reunion had been marred by fighting and pain and even Steve's hope that their old relationship was starting to rekindle had been shattered by Bucky's choice to go back into cryo. There's still time for that, once they figure out a way to fix the triggers and get Bucky back on his feet, but the lack of knowledge of what Bucky went through during his years in hiding have gnawed at Steve for longer than he cares to admit and holding the answers to his many questions is too tempting to bear.

Steve hopes Bucky won't mind, and if he does that he'll be able to forgive him, before giving into his selfish need and opening the book at page one.

* * *

 _I've spent too long in America._

 _For the first few weeks I had little choice; the country was on high alert after the fall of SHIELD and Hydra and it suited me best to lay low in the meantime (after making one final stop at the bank vault. I imagine Hydra had little use for that money anymore considering their moment of glory was reduced to ash) but now the need to be elsewhere is like a permanent itch. I don't belong here, and yet at the same time part of me does, and it's like I'm being pulled apart every moment I'm awake._

 _The man Rogers called Bucky has my face. I have some of his memories. Those are facts I can't deny, much as I'd like to, but at the same time I don't feel like that man. I don't feel like anyone – any identity I assign myself feels like I'm wearing someone else's clothes. I'm not James, I'm not Bucky. I'm not the Soldier, not anymore; he's been dead for weeks and unless I'm stuck back in the chair, he's staying that way. I have a fake passport that calls me Aleksander, but that's yet another identity Hydra made up in case a covert mission demanded I travel, and it won't be long before it runs out and Aleksander dies as well._

 _I wonder if Rogers knows what his words have done to me. I wonder if he'd be happy to know that I'm now a man with no name who can't tell if the memories in his head are even real. Bucky Barnes was a real man, but that doesn't mean that the glimpses I get into his life aren't some fabrication made to tear me apart from the inside. Before, I didn't know any life beyond being the Asset – perhaps it would be better if that were still the case._

 _Then again, perhaps not. Had I been so desperate to run back to Hydra, I would have done. Even now I can't explain why I pulled Rogers from the river and ran away. It was my choice though – my first in who knows how long – and here I am, dealing with the fallout of it. Free._

 _Maybe one day I'll get used to that._

 _Regardless, the reason I'm writing is because it helps clear the noise in my head, but that's not enough anymore. I need to get away from this country and find somewhere I know, or somewhere that doesn't seem both familiar and alien at the same time. According to my passport (and god knows if that will even work) I have a few months left before I'm stranded and I don't intend to wait that long._

 _If I leave now, the first flight which leaves JFK airport will take me straight to Oslo._

 _Norway it is._

* * *

 _I have a valid passport now, one which thankfully hasn't been cooked up by Hydra. I'm also staying in Bergen, which is pretty and all, but not entirely convenient considering the cold reminds me of times I'm trying to forget and my Norwegian vocabulary extends to "Hei", "Takk" and "Jeg trenger en ny pass"._

 _That seemed to be enough for my supplier, however. He calls himself Janove, which I doubt is his real name, but I can hardly judge him for that considering the only truth he knows about me is that I'm a fugitive. He doesn't ask many questions, which is nice, and he's willing to help me so long as I flash enough money at him, but apart from that most of our conversations have been made up of disinterested grunting. I have a passport listing me as a 40-year-old Russian citizen called Iakov (I specified age 35, but I'm assuming Janove's trying to be funny. I wonder how he'd react if he knew how old I truly was) and I can go anywhere I want now. It's an odd feeling, and not one I think I'll ever get used to._

 _I last saw Janove yesterday, when he handed me my shiny new passport plus a phone and plane tickets to the mainland, and I handed him the requested 4 million kroner. The last thing he said to me was "Prøv å ikke dø"._

 _I'm taking that as a sign that he's starting to like me._

* * *

Steve's instinct, after reading the first few pages of Bucky's notebook and familiarising himself with what must have been his earlier months on the run, is to track down this mysterious Janove (or whatever he's called) and thank him for helping Bucky build a life for himself. So blinded is he by gratitude that someone was there for Bucky when he couldn't be, that it takes a few days for sickening unease to slip into his gut and haunt his every step.

Janove knew that Bucky was on the run. Would have recognised him when his face was plastered across every news channel, and would likely have known more about Bucky's whereabouts at that time than anyone else.

Janove had the means to betray him after Vienna.

Despite trying to tell himself that his suspicions are only paranoia and that they barely matter now anyway, the thoughts still cling to his mind like a frightened child and it doesn't take long for him to track Natasha down and ask her if the man sounds familiar in any way.

The name itself doesn't ring a bell, but when Steve points out the relevant pages in Bucky's book, recognition flashes in her eyes and a smirk spreads across her lips.

"I'm aware of this guy. He called himself Geir when I met him though," she says, as she passes the book back to Steve. "He specialises in helping people disappear when they're in trouble, so long as they have the money for it."

"Hmm," is the only response Steve can offer, suspicion still weighing heavily on his mind. He wonders if the reward the government had offered in return for information about Bucky had been enough to overturn the loyalty four million kroner had bought. "Do you think he betrayed Bucky? After Vienna, I mean?"

Natasha quickly shakes her head before placing a gentle hand on Steve's shoulder, offering comfort in her own way. "I wouldn't worry about him. He may be a crook who makes a living helping other crooks, but he's fiercely loyal to his clients. I've never been able to get a peep out of him and he destroys any evidence of his deals so thoroughly it's impossible to link him to anyone. Besides, the guy refuses to leave Norway and the only call we got from there was from an American tourist who thought she'd seen the Winter Soldier in the gym."

Steve laughs without meaning to, but it's so nice to learn that he's still capable of such a thing that he doesn't mind. The only thing that matters now is that Bucky wasn't betrayed, by Janove at least. That during those uncertain two years he'd had at least one person he could trust.

It doesn't even matter that such trust had to be bought.

Maybe one day, Steve will get around to sending Janove a box of chocolates as thanks.

* * *

 _Janove (or Jan, as I've taken to calling him in my head) gave me a list of places he always recommends to clients that would be suitable for settling down and building a life from scratch. They're mainly cities across central or eastern Europe (anywhere east of Prague seems to be his criteria) and though I was tempted to ignore his advice in search of somewhere so off the grid it wouldn't even appear on a map, I've settled down enough now to know he has a point._

 _Had I gone for a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, I would have stood out like a sore thumb among locals whose lineage there goes back generations, and hiding would have ceased to be a possibility on day one. Here in Bucharest, though, no-one gives a shit who you are. You're one face in a crowd of many, and so long as you're not interfering in anyone's affairs, you're practically invisible._

 _It's a lot though. As beautiful as this city is, especially at night when it's quiet and I can wander the streets without worrying that someone will recognise me, it can be overwhelming. I guess the same could be said for any of the locations on Jan's list, but it's so warm and loud and busy that sometimes I feel like I'm being crushed. The apartment I've found is nice enough (as nice as I could get without having to explain why I paid upfront with cash) but the walls are thin and there isn't a moment where I can escape the noise._

 _Perhaps that's good. Noise doesn't leave much room for introspection, and introspection only seems to lead to pain these days, so perhaps the constant bombardment is a good thing. It puts me off sleep as well which is also good; the more nights without Zola or Pierce worming their way into my brain, the better. Exhaustion is a small price to pay for an empty mind._

 _Okay, that's not entirely true. Some memories are coming back to me, but they're nice. The apartment seems familiar, with the sounds of families all around me and the space that's just a little too small. I think I'm starting to remember the smell of Brooklyn streets and the heat reminds me of summers where we'd run off to Coney Island or desperately try to impress dames. Nothing seems entirely solid yet – I'm still half-convinced that this is all some trick of Hydra's – but it's nice to feel like there's something else to my existence besides what I was turned into. That I was someone worth caring about once._

 _I know Steve's looking for me. Jan gives me occasional updates and I've learned enough Norwegian by this point (because for someone who must be talented with languages considering his eclectic clientele, he insists on using his native tongue) to understand what he tells me. Currently Steve's in Tyskland, a.k.a. Germany to the common English-speaker that Jan doesn't approve of. I imagine he's chasing a fake lead seeing as I haven't been there since the 60s._

 _I'm not sure what I'll do if he makes his way here. Instinct screams at me to run to Kiev or Tallinn and remain hidden, but I can't deny that he seems genuinely willing to help me._

 _I guess I'm not really worried about him finding me. It's everyone else that scare me._

* * *

 _I keep feeling like people are starting to recognise me. Not that they should – the files Hydra had on me don't seem to have been released to the public and I hardly look like the Bucky who shows up in museums or historical programmes (and Christ, is that really what I am now? Some footnote of the past?)._

 _I know I'm being paranoid, but I can't help it. If the news-seller by the market looks at me for longer than a second I feel like the world could come apart at any moment, or when the waitress at the café takes a little too long with the coffee I can only imagine her reporting my existence to some faceless man on the phone. I don't make a habit of talking to people outside the apartment complex anymore, although perhaps I would start to feel better if I did, and sometimes I wish I didn't even need to leave the safety of my room._

 _It's pathetic. Believe me, I know that._

 _The thing that scares me is that sometimes those moments of paranoia are all it takes to make me miss being with Hydra. Perhaps that's the wrong way to put it – I wouldn't give up my freedom for anything, paltry though it is – but at least when I was constantly being given orders on what to do, I didn't need to face the repercussions of my actions or feel the weight of responsibility. I just did what I was told to the letter and tried to keep my head down to avoid punishment, like if I did a good enough job maybe they'd forget to use the chair this time. I don't have that level of certainty anymore, and the responsibility that I couldn't feel then haunts my every waking hour now._

 _Every time I close my eyes I see them. The people I've killed, and the people I'm going to kill if I ever end up back with Hydra. Some nights it's the young mother down the hall who has always been kind to me; some nights it's the news-seller or the girl trying to make a living serving coffee. Once I would have hurt them all if the right person told me to. And if my paranoia isn't baseless – if some faction of Hydra is watching my every move – they might be able to control me again._

 _Hopefully the government will find me before then. I can't kill anyone if I spend the rest of my life locked in a cage._

* * *

Steve isn't sure whether to laugh or cry when he gets to that page. Hindsight seems to cut through him like a knife, and he can't help but cringe at how even the faint hope Bucky had held about not being used as a pawn should the government find him had proved worthless.

Not for the first time, Steve wishes some cruel, unimaginable fate upon Zemo and he's almost grateful that in the end it had been T'Challa calling the shots on the man's punishment and not himself.

Thankfully, he's keeping too busy to be haunted by such desires every waking hour. On Natasha's insistence, he's continuing to train their small team in preparation for an unknown fight that inevitably lies in their future.

Every day he watches Wanda become more confident in her abilities as the fierce energy she summons is brought under her control; he watches Clint and Scott bond and develop strategies for how their skills can work together (more than once, Scott has been a passenger on Clint's arrows, and Steve's not entirely sure if that counts as training or just a means of acquiring an adrenaline rush). Natasha brings him and Sam up to speed on different martial arts techniques they'd been meaning to get around to before being rudely interrupted by the Sokovia Accords.

Sam also spends time with the palace doctors, brushing up on his medical knowledge from his days in para-rescue, while Nat and Wanda occasionally train with the Dora Milaje. More than once, Steve has overheard them talking excitedly about the elite team's abilities over dinner, and has had to cover a proud smile with his hand.

He doesn't know when such training will need to be put to good use. Nothing in the news or T'Challa's intel suggests that a fight is approaching, but Steve can feel the anticipation of one prickling under his skin every time he tries to relax. He only hopes that next time his opponents are a faceless horde of aliens – uncomplicated and manageable – rather than friends like Stark who've already been hurt enough.

* * *

 _The girl down the hall's kid is sick. The thing's spent the last two nights screaming, and her singing to it hasn't been enough to shut it up. Part of me wishes she'd just slip it some chloroform and give us all peace, but I doubt that's seen as good parenting advice._

 _Steve used to get sick. The Smithsonian mentioned it; they had that picture of him when he was barely five feet tall and a list showing all the things wrong with him. How the kid made it to his twenties, I'll never know, but I'm starting to remember looking after him a few times. Used to spend more time round his place than my own and wasted whole nights listening to him breathe, not entirely sure what I'd do if he stopped._

 _He got pneumonia a lot. I keep remembering him being pale and clammy, half a corpse already, and his breath crackling like someone was crumpling paper in his lungs. Most of the doctors in the area hated him because they were barely finished treating one thing before something else popped up, but his mom, bless her, never gave up looking for help. I think her name was Sarah; she had blonde hair and blue eyes, like Steve, and she treated me like I was her own. I don't like thinking of her too much though. It's weird missing someone you barely remember._

 _The kid's still screaming (I think it's a boy. Andrei, was it? I'll need to ask). I'm not sure if his mother can afford much in the way of medicine. I might ask her what he has in the morning and get some for her._

* * *

Bucky's birthday sneaks up on Steve without him realising it, and the knowledge that he's spending the day frozen in ice and dead to the world makes him feel numb for the entire day. There's a strange absurdity in them still being here after a century, but the circumstances surrounding that fact drain any joy from that realisation.

Instead of celebrating, Steve simply feels tired and it hits him that even though he can visit Bucky whenever he wants, he misses him terribly. Misses being able to talk to him; misses his smile and the crinkle in his nose every time he gets lost in laughter; misses the days before the war when they imagined themselves having normal lives and growing old along with everyone else.

He's aware that such yearning is hopeless and that, for all the bizarre things he's seen, there isn't a way for him to take Bucky back to the Brooklyn they know, but that doesn't stop him dreaming about it. He spends the evening of Bucky's birthday by his cryo-tube, talking about their school days and summers in Brooklyn and Coney Island, while trying to convince himself that Bucky looks peaceful in sleep.

He's so lost in his one-sided conversation that he doesn't notice Sam entering the medical bay until he's standing right next to him, and Steve manages to resist jumping in surprise and instead sends an unconvincing smile Sam's way.

"How's the popsicle?" Sam asks, and Steve fails to hold back a smirk before looking over to the cryotube. Bucky looks much the same as always, calm and still as if trapped in a painting, with the ice acting as a malicious barrier that prevents Steve from getting to him. The monitors showing his vital signs dance across the screen are a comforting reminder that, despite appearances, his friend is alive and well though. Steve has occasionally wasted entire nights just watching the slowed heartbeat make its way across the screen.

"The same as always." He shrugs and decides not to elaborate. There's only so many ways to describe someone who's so absent from the world yet somehow clinging to it; trapped in a still, unchanging form with each passing day. Steve wonders if Bucky dreams as he had done when he'd spent all those years in the ice, but he's not entirely sure he wants to know the answer to that.

In the background he can hear Sam pulling over a chair, and he finally tears his eyes away from the cryo-tube to face him. He's momentarily caught off-guard by how solemn his friend appears after the humour in his opening question, but then Steve can hardly be the lightest of company at the moment and Sam has always been annoyingly perceptive.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks.

Steve doesn't know. It's been months since he's known what to feel.

To say that would be admitting too much though, so he simply smiles and says "Always," and hopes it's enough for Sam to be reassured.

Fat chance of that.

"You know, one of the most valuable lessons I learned when I first came home was that it's okay for you to say no when someone asks you that."

Steve laughs, caught out, but it sounds bitter to his ears in spite of his intentions. Perhaps Sam's right; he's not okay. He has to deal with the fact that his friends are in hiding because of him and that the person he cares about most seems more alive as words on a page than he does in the flesh. And more than anything else, he's tired, and he knows it's an exhaustion that sleep will do little to remedy.

"You're right," he says, and he just manages a weak smile even though the words seem to protest at being spoken. "I'm not okay. Everything's a mess right now and I wish I hadn't dragged you all into it-"

"Hey," Sam interrupts, and he holds up a hand before Steve can butt in again. "You didn't drag us into anything. We chose to follow you because it was the right thing to do. Didn't matter what the risks were. Hell, the only one who didn't have a choice is the T1000 over there, and he's alive because of you."

"I know that," Steve says, and though he understands the truth in Sam's words, the fact remains the same; his friends followed him and they were punished for it. That's on him. "But it's my fault that none of us can go home."

There's a beat in which the weight building in Steve's chest seems to grow heavier and it takes longer for Sam to speak than it should. He looks over, half-expecting the blame he's placed upon himself to be present on his friend's face, but the only thing there is the kindness that Sam can't seem to shake regardless of all the trials they go through.

"Well yeah, I miss home," Sam says, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "I really miss it. I wish I could go for a run in D.C., or sleep in my own bed, or check up on how Rhodey's getting on. But on the other hand, I'm living in a palace when by rights I should be in some godforsaken prison at the bottom of the ocean." He pauses and a disbelieving smile spreads across his face, as if the absurdity of the life he's found himself in is finally sinking in. "And we'll be able to go home someday. Until then, we just have to make the most of what we've got."

"Oh, all this serious talk, I almost forgot," Sam reaches down to a small cardboard box settled on the floor and picks it up carefully, removing the lid before handing it over to Steve. "For Bucky's birthday. You'll like this."

Steve grins and he looks into the box to see a rich home-made chocolate cake, topped with a message written in melted white chocolate.

" _Happy Birthday, you miserable old bastard!"_

A laugh escapes Steve before he can stop it, and he has to place the cake on a nearby table to prevent himself from dropping it in his laughter. Sam looks extremely proud of himself, failing to hold back a grin of his own, and there's something about the situation that's so familiar that Steve feels like he's back home.

"I hope you don't say that about me behind my back," Steve says once he's caught his breath. He doesn't miss the way Sam instantly becomes defensive – excessively so.

"Course not! You're still in your nineties, you're practically a baby," he says, finishing off with a wink that only makes Steve more suspicious. "Anyway, I took a picture of the cake earlier so we can show him when he's out. I thought he'd appreciate it."

"Yeah, he would."

Steve's attention is dragged over to the cryo-tube and the man frozen within, looking much the same as he did when he went in all those months ago. He knows he shouldn't feel as unsettled as he does by this situation – knows it was Bucky's choice and that the people looking after him care a lot more than Hydra ever did – but that doesn't make it any easier to spend his days so close to his friend without being able to properly indulge in having him back. It's selfish, perhaps, and Steve knows he would never have forced any other decision on Bucky when the topic of cryo was first brought up, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

Deciding he'd rather not bring the tone down and force Sam to endure his problems any longer, Steve clears his throat before gesturing to the cake. "You make that yourself?"

"Nah, Wanda helped out. She said if I taught her how to make a good birthday cake, she'd teach me some of those delicious Sokovian recipes she does. Seemed like a fair deal," Sam says, finishing off with a smile that Steve finds oddly easy to share. He wonders if he's ever told Sam just how light a room seems to get when he enters it. "Besides, one-hundred's a big birthday. Would be weird if we didn't do anything."

Steve can only nod, still not entirely capable of comprehending just how old he and Bucky are. He knows, deep down, that those countless years in the ice barely count and at most they're in their thirties, but that doesn't change the fact that they're both alive and kicking a whole century after they were born, having left most of their friends and family behind.

He must let himself descend into silence, for when Sam speaks up again Steve jumps reflexively.

"Are there any embarrassing stories in that book of his that I can tease him about later?"

Steve laughs and shakes his head. Natasha must have told Sam about his reading habits, it seems. "I don't think it'd be appropriate for me to tell you that."

"Ah, fair enough. I'm sure I'll be able to find something to rib him about," Sam says, waving a hand as if manually dropping the subject. Steve doesn't doubt that by the time Bucky wakes up, Sam will have made it his mission to be the ultimate pain in the ass and that there's nothing he can say that will stop him. Besides, Steve imagines Bucky prefers it when people treat him like a person and not a piece of glass that can shatter at any moment – not that he'd tell Sam that in a hurry. "Anyway, considering he's hardly going to be eating it anytime soon and I put blood, sweat and tears into that cake, we should probably dig in. I'll make him another one when he's awake."

Steve wrinkles his nose playfully, as the image of delicious chocolate cake starts to become more gruesome in his mind's eye. "You're not making it sound very appealing, Sam."

"I _am_ prepared to eat all of it-"

"Nice try."

Steve smiles again, and tries to ignore how Sam seems to deflate with relief at the sight as if he's just accomplished a mission. He reaches across to the box and passes it along to Sam, who takes out the knife laid beside the cake and starts preparing two generous slices, leaving behind just enough to feed anyone else who's interested. They spend the next few minutes in silence, Steve letting his mind go blank as he indulges in the taste of dark chocolate mixed with the sweetness from the white, and mentally reminds himself to ask Sam to make another cake for Bucky's awakening when the time comes.

Not that he needs to. As morning comes around and the two start to leave, clearing away their mess to avoid making the doctors' jobs harder, he sees Sam quickly scribble a note on a post-it he steals from one of the nurses' stations before sticking it onto the glass of Bucky's tube. When Steve wanders closer to have a look at what's been written, he breathes out a laugh before looking over to see Sam looking particularly happy with himself.

 _IOU one frankly delicious birthday cake, if I do say so myself._

 _Happy Birthday, you ancient weirdo._

 _Sam_

* * *

 _I killed a friend. Hydra made me kill a friend without me realising it (and the bastards must have known, surely. I bet they even laughed about it)._

 _Every report I've found on Howard Stark's death states it was a freak car accident. A tire gave out and launched him and his wife into a tree, killing them instantly._

 _If only._

 _I think he recognised me too. Called me "Sergeant Barnes" before I crushed his skull. For some reason I chose not to share this with Hydra until their new squad of Winter Soldiers decided to unleash their inner Frankenstein's Monster and a more detailed mission-report was demanded of me, and I ended up being rewarded by having the name fried out of my brain. I'm starting to wonder how many more times that happened, beyond the two I can remember._

 _It hurts to think of Stark broken on the ground like that. He was always so confident when I knew him - not unlike his son by the look of it - showing off his flying cars and planes and high-tech gadgets that helped us survive those months in the war. Steve owes his shield to him. Hell, I owe my life to him, considering he's the one who flew Steve to Azzano. And look how I re-payed him._

 _The mother down the hall – Elena – she said I was a good man when I brought her those antibiotics for her son two weeks ago. I wonder what she'd think of me if she found out who I was._

 _God help me, but I hope she never finds out._

* * *

Steve's not sure whether it surprises him or not that Bucky knew about Howard all along. On the face of it, he knows that Bucky spent most of their hurried reunion pretending to remember a lot less than he did; a fact that had initially been frustrating, but had likely been an attempt to protect himself in a situation that was growing increasingly volatile. It hurts to know that Bucky had to deal with that guilt for so long though. All the nameless victims of Hydra must have been agonising enough without them forcing him to kill someone he knew.

In the months since Siberia, Steve's made a conscious effort not to think about it too deeply. Neither he nor Stark have contacted each other beyond the initial letter, although Steve knows he won't hesitate to pick up the phone if necessity demands it, and it's not as if there's been much opportunity to discuss it fully with Bucky. It feels odd, occasionally, to no longer be Captain America, but besides that and the guilt that clings to him every time he thinks he should have told Tony what he knew sooner and saved him and Bucky so much pain, looking back at their time in that compound often leaves him feeling numb more than anything else.

Bucky's passage in the notebook about Howard is one of the few Steve finds himself revisiting. It's strange to have so much written confirmation of what Bucky remembered and of the cruelty Hydra would show him if they suspected he knew more than he should. Steve thinks of Elena, the young mother in Bucky's apartment block, and wonders if she believes everything the news has been telling her since Vienna or whether she still remembers the kind stranger who bought antibiotics for her son.

He hopes it's the latter. Bucky deserves the latter.

* * *

 _Steve's feet were so small he used to put newspapers in his shoes to make them fit. This guy thought it'd be a good idea to go off to war._

 _What an idiot._

* * *

 _I've started volunteering at a nearby shelter that helps homeless veterans. I don't do much – I help dish up meals and hand out clean clothes to those who need it – but it's nice to do something productive. I have enough money left over from what I took from Hydra that I don't need to work, but I'll go mad if I stay in the apartment all the time so volunteering it is._

 _I think the owner's set on adopting me as her own. Her name's Maria and she's well into her eighties (younger than me, but I imagine she'd only laugh if I told her that) but she likes to keep herself busy and the veterans adore her, often staying long after their bowls are empty to listen to her stories. Supposedly, she's met three American presidents (none of whom she liked), married her childhood sweetheart and spent most of her marriage robbing banks by his side, and she was in the front lines of the revolution back in 1989. When someone inevitably laughs and tells her she's making it all up, she'll simply ask him to prove it and walk away with a wink. By this point I wouldn't be surprised if she was telling the truth (although the names of the presidents she's met seem to change every time she tells that story)._

 _One day the two of us should try to find out whose life is weirder._

 _I think she sees me more clearly than others do (her first words to me were "What is a Russian boy doing with an American accent?". Apparently I'm losing my touch) but she doesn't ask questions, even about my arm when I have to take off my glove. I doubt she'd betray me if she suspected anything, but for such a tiny woman she can fit a lot of intensity into her eyes so who knows what she's capable of._

 _She's always been kind to me though; always gives me extra food and clothes to take home no matter how many times I tell her I don't need it, and every time I leave she calls me "fiul meu"._

 _I think I'm going to miss her when I have to go._

 _Most of the veterans are younger, those who've returned from Iraq or Afghanistan with no home to go back to and a myriad of physical and psychological injuries between them, but there are a few from my day who've spent long decades struggling to escape the war. I see myself in some of them – from my days with the Howling Commandos where I was trying to balance hope and optimism with the bitterness I was already letting win – but then I have to stop myself because these men are heroes and I'm… well, I don't even know what I am._

 _It seems unfair that they've all ended up here, relying on the kindness of a retired old woman simply to get something to eat, but I'm not really surprised by that anymore. All I can do is help where I can and try to ignore the constant knowledge that I shouldn't be here._

 _Honestly, the work makes me feel good, like I'm a person again. It's been such a long time that I'd forgotten what that even felt like, but it's nice._

 _One day I might even be happy._

* * *

That's the last entry. As much as Steve flicks through the rest of the book, there's nothing else to find, and he doesn't even know when it was written in relation to him finding Bucky again. He knows it doesn't matter too much – there'd been other books in the apartment after all – but a large part of him is curious as to how long Bucky got to spend being content and cared for before the world fell apart. Did he get to spend two weeks helping Maria or did he have as long as six months? Despite Steve looking, there's no written date to enlighten him.

When it becomes clear that the book will offer no more answers, he gently closes it and returns it to the backpack he's been keeping safe all this time. He imagines Bucky will want it back, considering how fiercely he'd made a point about taking it with him back in Bucharest, and it's all Steve can do to make sure it's returned in the same state it was left, assuming the investigators haven't removed anything.

It's odd that those two years of knowing nothing about Bucky, not even if he was alive, are now no longer a mystery to him. In a sense it's nice to know that he wasn't constantly lost and that he had people in his life. People he cared about, even. It's likely that some of them will be thinking about him to this day, wondering what happened after he vanished from their lives; his existence as much of a mystery to them now as it had once been to Steve. He's not sure how they'd all feel if they knew the truth, especially Maria who had started to call him her son.

Guilt starts to pervade Steve's thoughts as well, however, when he thinks of the life that Bucky was yanked from so cruelly. One morning he'd woken up and gone to the market only to be recognised and framed for a crime he had little knowledge of. Even if he does get the chance to go back to Bucharest it will likely be far in the future, once all their names have been cleared and the world becomes sane. Who knows how much will have changed by then.

One thing is clear, however.

The last thing Bucky wrote expressed a wish to be happy. Whatever happens from now on, Steve knows he will do anything to make that so.

* * *

 **A/N - I hope you enjoyed this! There'll be a quick epilogue up, hopefully in a few days.**

 **Some notes/translations:**

 ** _Hei_ \- Hi**

 ** _Takk_ \- Thanks**

 ** _Jeg trenger en ny pass_ \- I need a new passport**

 ** _Prøv å ikke dø_ \- Try not to die**

 ** _Fiul meu_ \- (Romanian) My son**

 **The name Janove (pronounced Yan-oh-vay) for Bucky's Norwegian friend has been shamelessly stolen from Janove Ottesen, the frontman of the pretty great Norwegian band 'Kaizers Orchestra' (if you're interested, I recommend the songs 'Hjerteknuser' and 'Forloveren').**

 **Also any mistakes in translations are my own; I chose Norwegian because I have limited experience with it but if you spot any mistakes feel free to let me know :)**

 **Again, thank you for reading this! Any feedback is appreciated and I should hopefully have the next part up soon.**


	2. Epilogue

**A/N - Here's a quick epilogue (complete with a slight title change for the story - the new one seemed more appropriate given what happens at the end of this chapter). I hope you enjoy this!**

* * *

"The prodigal son's awake!"

Sam's excited announcement takes a few seconds to force a tired reaction out of Bucky, who responds by sending a rude hand gesture his way. Though he knows he shouldn't, Steve finds himself laughing, the noise drawing his newly awoken friend's attention towards him, and he's gifted with a weak smile which he returns. After so many months of Bucky being frozen and unreachable, Steve finds himself unused to the weightlessness that seeing him re-animated brings, and it feels like he's spent the last year as a shattered fragment of glass that's finally been put back together.

Bucky was awoken early in the morning, after a week of intense discussions regarding the safety behind doing so, along with extensive planning for his eventual management once he was back on his feet. As Steve looks at him now, it's clear that the aftershocks of the ice are still clinging to him; he's ghostly pale and clammy with dark shadows under his eyes, and though great care has been taken to keep him warm, he's still shivering underneath his blanket. He seems alert though, which is a small comfort, and though it's clear he's going to need a lot of rest, Steve's finally able to trust his eyes and assure himself that he actually has Bucky back.

"I would say it's nice to see you, Sam, but I'd be lying," Bucky croaks, only letting the fact that he's joking shine through when Sam clutches his chest in mock-outrage. He drops the playfulness briefly when a young doctor sidles up to him to evaluate his cranial nerves and neurological responses, but when she finishes her examination with a satisfied nod, a small smile graces Bucky's face again.

The sight is enough to cancel out the presence of those busying themselves around the room. For the moment, all Steve can focus on is Bucky and Sam.

When it becomes painfully clear that he's been standing on the fringes of the medical bay for too long, Steve takes several heavy strides towards Bucky, with each step feeling like an invisible rope is pulling him back, keeping him away from the man all over again. He fights it though, as he always has, and finds himself sitting beside Bucky on the bed, before placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam leave them in peace, finding a doctor in order to gather any information they may need, and Bucky turns to Steve, seeming to deflate in his exhaustion as if finally able to drop an act.

"It's good to see you," Steve says, the words seeming so insignificant after all that's happened between them. Part of him is still trapped in disbelief and he half-expects that he'll wake to a world in which Bucky is still in the ice - or worse, buried in a ravine - but if this is an illusion then he's determined to drag it out as long as possible.

"S'nice to see you too," Bucky says. Up close he looks even more exhausted, like the claws of sleep are seconds away from claiming him, but unlike with Hydra there is no-one here who will deny him rest. Steve will make sure of that.

The next few moments pass in silence. It doesn't take long for Bucky to give into temptation and slump against Steve with his head rested on his shoulder, and Steve watches as his breathing evens out and he surrenders to sleep. It's only then that the surrounding sounds return to him – the cacophony of beeps and hums of machines, and discussions being carried out in both Wakandan and English – and he looks up to see Sam finish a detailed discussion with a doctor before making his way over to them, smiling more softly than Steve expects him to when he sees Bucky fast asleep.

"How is he, really?" Sam asks, any hint of the earlier teasing absent from his tone, and Steve allows himself a weak smile before looking back to the man at his side. He knows that waking up isn't enough to bring an end to his trials – there's still the triggers to deal with – but it's a start.

Enough for Steve to believe that things will get better anyway.

He takes a deep breath and exhales, as if releasing several months-worth of tension, and looks back to Sam with a relieved smile.

"He's okay," he says, and his breath shudders as if such a concept is still unbelievable. "He's going to be okay."

Sam nods and the corners of his mouth quirk upwards before he goes to Bucky's other side and sits quietly beside him. Steve finds he doesn't have the energy to remind him that he's supposed to be keeping up a 'you're an asshole and I hate you' act with Bucky; he's sure Sam will return to it as soon as Bucky wakes up anyway.

For the first time in a long time, Steve finds that he's perfectly content and is able to waste a good few hours letting Bucky rest, indulging himself in the illusion that nothing beyond the three of them matters.

* * *

It's a further two days before Bucky's released from the medical bay, with the doctors satisfied that his stint in the ice has caused him no harm, and Steve's finally able to take him to the suite he's called home for the past few months. Though T'Challa has offered to prepare a separate room for Bucky, he seems satisfied enough to stay close to Steve. As they walk along the wide corridors joining the medical wing to the tower containing the guest bedrooms, Bucky leans close to Steve and mutters that it'll be just like when they slept on the couch cushions as kids, and Steve shakes his head and laughs because of course Bucky would remember that.

When they finally arrive at Steve's suite and he's able to close the door behind them as if separating them both from the bustle of the palace, he turns to see Bucky stumbling over to the window, enamoured. It's mid-day - the curtains are drawn back and the view is on full display – and Steve makes his way over to Bucky's side and takes in the sights as if doing so for the first time.

The sun is at its highest, beaming down upon the grounds and amplifying the greens and glittering blues of the grasses and streams. As if embracing the palace in a tight hug, the grounds are surrounded by dense green forests which continue into a rocky outcrop of mountains in the distance, and straight ahead tall skyscrapers decorate the skyline, the modern city contrasting with the wild countryside. Though Bucky had seen a little of Wakanda upon their arrival, the time to truly appreciate it hadn't been a luxury he could afford, but now he seems to be falling in love before Steve's eyes.

It's easy to lose themselves in the view, and Steve loses track of time before he pulls himself away from the window and wanders over to the high wardrobe opposite his bed. He can feel Bucky's eyes follow him across the room as he pushes away the hanging clothes, and pulls free the tattered backpack he'd received so long ago.

When he turns, Bucky's eyes light up in recognition and he walks towards Steve, the wonders of the outside world forgotten. Each step seems careful, disbelieving, and considering the circumstances in which the backpack had been lost, Steve can hardly blame him.

"Sharon was able to return it," he explains, though he's not sure the circumstances matter all that much to Bucky. "I'm not sure if she was able to save everything, but-"

"No, it's… it's fine," Bucky says, a small smile making its way onto his face, and he reaches out and carefully takes the backpack from Steve. His touch is careful, as if half-expecting the fabric to crumble into dust in his hands, but when it remains whole he wanders over to the bed and starts digging through it.

Steve joins him, sitting silently by his side and simply watching as Bucky examines the contents. He watches him pull out Janove's phone with a small smile and slipping it into his pocket, before pulling free the maps with a bark of laughter and a muttered "Won't be needing these anymore." The outdated passport gets thrown in a pile with the maps while the new one joins the pile of chocolates and phrase-books that Bucky intends to keep, and the money gets returned to the backpack for safekeeping.

When he pulls out the notebook, gently as if handling his most prized possession, his breath seems to catch in his throat and Steve lets himself wonder just how valuable the memories within are to Bucky. They'd felt important to read, on his part, but for Bucky it must be a symbol of his ability to remember his past and move on from Hydra's twisted control, and he can't imagine what it must be like for him to have the book back after thinking it lost to some vault in Berlin. Steve watches as Bucky rests the book in his lap and flicks through it with his hand, lost in himself until he reaches the final scribbled entry.

"Have you read it?" he asks, although Steve suspects he already knows the answer.

"Yes," Steve replies, and when Bucky closes the book and rests his hand on its cover, he adds "I shouldn't have done, I'm sorry."

Any justified anger he expects fails to emerge, however. Instead, Bucky simply shrugs, as if Steve hadn't let his loneliness compel him to look into some of his deepest thoughts.

If anything, the fact that Bucky has so little reaction only makes Steve feel worse.

"If you read it, then you know… It wasn't true, what I told Stark. I don't remember everything. I'm not sure I ever will." Steve doesn't miss Bucky's sad smile as he speaks, nor the way it fails to meet his eyes. The words sound like an admission of guilt, as if it's expected that Steve will respond with anger at the notion that no matter how well Bucky's recovered, he hasn't recovered well _enough_. It takes all of Steve's willpower not to interrupt and reassure Bucky otherwise, rather than let him say his piece. "The man I was – the man you know – I'm not sure I can ever be him again. I've changed too much."

"We've both changed," Steve says, and Bucky responds with a huff of laughter before turning to look at him. The truth in the words must sink in though, for the quirk in his lips quickly vanishes and his eyes study Steve as if seeing him for the first time since the causeway three years before. Neither of them are the same men they were in the forties – they've both endured too much for that to be the case and have been left as scarred echoes of their past selves – and though it's nice to believe that this is the point where they'll start to go back to what they used to be, Steve isn't sure that's possible.

"Look, I'm not going to lie and say I don't miss the old days, because I do. I really do. But if I went back there now, I don't think I'd fit in. No-one would recognise me, and not just because of the serum," he adds, smirking as the idea that of course no-one would think he was the same skinny-Steve Rogers seems to flash through both his and Bucky's minds. "And what happened to you… if I could have switched places with you, I would have. I'd have given anything to save you from that."

He sees Bucky flinch, but he can't bring himself to regret saying it. He knows the idea of either of them undergoing the torture Hydra inflicted is unappealing, but Steve has spent more nights than he can remember losing sleep over the knowledge that it should have been him suffering all those years and not Bucky.

Perhaps, in a better, parallel universe, that's how it happened. Perhaps there's even a universe in which they both led the normal lives they craved.

Steve shakes his head to rid himself of the idea. There's no point crying over what should have happened; all they can do is deal with the reality. "Anyway, we're here now and that's all that matters. And it's really good to have you back, Buck."

Bucky looks away from him and draws his attention back to the notebook in his lap, his eyebrow furrowed in the same way it used to when he was concentrating on something. He stares at it for several moments before releasing a breath and carefully tucking it into the backpack along with the money for safekeeping. One day Steve hopes that they'll be able to salvage the others – that Bucky will have access to every memory that flared within his mind just long enough for him to write it down before it faded – but at least he has the makeshift diary for now.

Steve really will have to pay Sharon back one day.

Bucky's barely finished setting the backpack aside before he grabs Steve in a fierce, one-armed hug and buries his face in his neck. Steve must give a yelp of surprise, if Bucky's sudden laughter is any indication, but it isn't long before he too is laughing with relief at the fact that holding the most important person in his life is finally an option again. He almost misses Bucky's soft utterance of "It's good to have you back too," but it hardly matters; the message is implicit in the way Bucky clings to him as if afraid to let go.

It hits Steve, as he clutches Bucky a little tighter, that it's been decades since they've shared a proper hug. The last time was probably in some cramped tent in Europe, cuddling together to fend off the cold, unaware that an irreparable change was facing them. The weight of everything makes him want to cry, and he clenches his eyes shut and simply loses himself in the idea that they're the only two people in the world. Two people lost in time, with no family and no home besides each other, but perhaps that's all they ever needed.

Hell, perhaps they're lucky. They have people like Sam and Nat and Wanda in their lives too – a family in their own right and a reminder that they'll never truly be as lonely as they feel – and they're safe and alive in spite of the many people who would wish them ill. The future that lies ahead of them will not always be a bright one, but at the very least they will have a future.

"I guess the end of the line still has a way to go, huh?" Bucky says, his lips brushing against Steve's neck as he speaks and his voice soft as if worried he'll be overheard.

Steve smiles and opens his eyes, looking out at the sun shining brightly over the peace that lies beyond their window.

"Yeah Buck. It does."


End file.
